Gardner Edwards is a normal everyday man. He is a painter, an artist, just like his father. Unfortunatley, he has lost his inspiration. His father is sick, thought to be insane because he swore he saw fairies. This is a short story I wrote last year and I

Gardner Edwards drove his
sleek, shiny motorcar along the back roads of the Yorkshire
countryside. As acres of neatly cut patchwork quilt land, spread out
before his eyes, Gard debated on hopping out of the car, and grabbing
his easel and paints from the back seats. He decided against it. One,
he didn't feel any urge to paint,
normally he would feel a throb, and a rising guilt if he didn't
stop to paint, and two, he would be late for his weekly visits to his
sick father in the mental institute, which really was the more polite
version of an insane asylum. Actually, he never was really late since
his father never noticed. He was too caught up in his own artwork.

Gard never saw what his
father drew. The doctor always confiscated the pictures for studying
before Gard could have a really good look. Thinking of his sick
fathers art, made Gard think of his own. It was disturbing, Gard
thought as he drove along, careful of the occasional rodent that
would try to cross the road, that he had not felt any compelling urge
recently to paint something. His patron was getting impatient,
thinking he was slacking off. Gard thought of their most recent
telephone call and hoped his patron had just been in a really bad
mood.

Gard had been with his wife
Alice in the kitchen doing the monthly bills, when the telephone had
rung. Alice, his sweet, beautiful, caring wife had answered. He
remembered seeing her tender face, harden. She had handed the
earpiece to him, and sat back down to her sewing. She did not glance
up, but her face had been controlling her anger. Gard had asked,
"Yes?"

"Mr. Edwards? This is
T.J. Farming." Gard had instantly tensed up. T.J. had a good taste
in art, but a foul temper, and a certain inclination to the spirits
of the bottle. Gardner was always wary of his patron, and was quick
not to try to anger him. Alice, who was normally so sweet and gentle,
always had a hard time with Farming.

"Mr. Edwards, I have just
been doing my bills-,"

"Yes sir, I have as well.
As a matter of fact, you caught me right in the middle of them,"
Gard retorted.

"I suppose your bills
have not been as long as mine," Farming began.

"Sir," Gard
interrupted, "If I am still doing mine, that should tell you
something".

"As I was saying",
Farming went on, as though there had been no interruptions, (you
could learn to hate the man), "I have just received a bill
concerning the new easel I sent you."

"I see sir."

"No, I don't suppose
you do. That easel cost 400 lbs, man! What are you doing with it?"

"Sir, if you didn't
want to give me the easel, you shouldn't have sent it."

"That's not it! Have
you used it? I have not seen a painting since I sent the easel
to you," the man was clearly angry.

"Sir, that was two weeks
ago. If you expect me to produce a painting within two weeks-,"
T.J. interrupted Gard.

"Yes I do!" the man
screamed.

"I was saying sir I need
more time. If that does not suit your standards, go patronize
some other worthy artist."

That stopped the bull. When
his voice came on again, however, it was still less than satisfying.
It was stone cold ice.

"One more week,
Edwards." He hung up. Alice was staring at Gard, her hands poised
in mid- air, a stitch she never even started.

Gard nodded and said, "One
more week."

The bleached white
Edwardian mansion that was the asylum appeared to quickly for Gard.
He pulled up in front of the door and sat there for a minute, deep in
thought. Then he got out and started up the asylum stairs leading to
the bleached white door.

The interior was also
bleached white. You'd think they'd
learn something, Gard thought, the guy who designed this place
had no artistic inclination whatsoever. The doctor appeared, and
Gard stopped his critical examination.

"Hello Mr. Edwards. Your
father is waiting for you." The first time Gard had come here and
the doctor had said that, Gard thought he meant it. It was really
just his routine.

Gard found his father
propped up in bed, but his drawing tray was not in his lap.

"He has not been drawing
lately," the doctor spoke from beside Gard in the doorway, quietly,
as though reading his mind, "He's stopped."

"Hello Dad," Gard
spoke.

Gard's
father looked up from his lap, spotting his son in the doorframe.

"Ah, my son," he
exclaimed. Gard remembered that what always befuddled the doctor, was
his father's lack of dementia. He always seemed to remember things
so well, well, except when it came to the fairies. Gard sighed, the
fairies were the only things that made Harold Edwards insane.

Gard sighed again, the
fairy delusions had started 2 years ago. Harold had started claiming
to be seeing the fairies, in public. Everyone had him to be just old
and mad, so Gard had been forced to put his father in the asylum.
Gard had hated that. He remembered how Alice had come with his father
in the transferral to make sure he was all right and comfy. Alice
loved his father. She had hated to put him in the asylum, more than
Gard even.

Now, Harold was gesturing
for Gard. He walked to the bed, and sat on the edge. His father
reached for a pile of papers next to him on his nightstand. The pages
were a faded tan. He handed them to his son. "It's
them," he whispered, passing the papers
to Gard.

These were what his father
had drawn. They were fairies. Beautiful, colourful pictures they
were, of fairies. His father started to name all of them.

"This one's Maeve,
she's the fairy queen at the moment. That's her with her court",
he said pointing to the picture. "And over here", he pulled out
another sketch, "This is her daughter. The Queen hasn't told me
her name yet. She such a lovely, sweet creature, like your Alice, and
just as beautiful," he murmured.

"See her wings here,"
his withered old finger pointed out her beautiful wings, "Like dusk
and dawn together."

At about 2 in the morning,
Gard couldn't stand it anymore. He threw
off the covers and grabbed a heavy robe, and out on his boots. He was
careful not to wake Alice as he travelled down the winding staircase.
He grabbed his easel set, and canvas, and went out the front door. As
though pulled by some strange urge, Gard followed a well-worn path
down through the woods in back of the house. He came upon the stream,
and set up his easel by a rock. He began to paint.

He didn't
really know what it was he was painting, he just let the colours flow
from the brush, and the soft, caressing strokes fall where they may.
Around dawn, Gard stopped and studied his art. He recognized the
scenery of the woods, but there was something, hovering in the center
of the painting. Gard followed the lines of the paint with his eyes
to the tips and back down again. The colours were many, all blended
in. Like dusk and dawn.

Something caught Gard's
eye. He looked up. There, hovering directly in the center of his line
of vision was something more beautiful than any thing he had ever
seen. That something had wings.

"Like dusk and dawn,"
he murmured, then glanced back at the painting. "Like dusk and
dawn."

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